The Walls Have Ears
by Scribbler
Summary: An unexpected observer of life in the Jounouchi apartment passes judgement on the breakdown of the family.


**Disclaimer:** Productively not mine.

**A/N:** Written for Challenge #36 'Grow' at ygodrabble. This wasn't my first idea, but was the most surreal.

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><p><em><strong>The Walls Have Ears<strong>_

© Scribbler, April 2011.

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><p>The wall was good at what it did. It propped the ceiling. The whole apartment would crumble without it. On some level it knew about 'people', but didn't start paying attention until one scratched it so sharply it felt actual pain. It wanted to lash out, but all it could do was seethe and glare when the stupid human came back to scratch some more.<p>

The third time it brought another biped; smaller and hesitant.

"Mom said not to draw on the walls."

An excellent point, in the wall's opinion.

"It'll be fine. Stand here. Don't move."

More scratching. More pain. Unlike the ceiling, the wall couldn't drop light-fittings on them, or shut on their fingers like a door.

"You're nearly as big as me."

"Big Brother? That's not how you spell my name."

"Sure it is. I wrote it all special, see?"

Writing? They were _writing_? The wall churned with anger. Indignity! Humiliation! It should drop the entire _ceiling_ on them!

It wasn't sad when one of the bigger humans – the one with lumps on its front – ran with the smallest into the night. It was almost pleased. Next morning it heard noises from the remaining two, like when the plumbing had a tantrum. The graffiti-artist came and crouched beside it, running a hand over the writing-marks almost lovingly. The wall plotted revenge, but unsuccessfully.

The graffiti-artist did this several times, often with a wet face. The wall observed the biggest human packing stuffed animals and picture-books into bin liners. Neither the small nor lumpy human returned.

"You're all I got left," sniffed the graffiti-artist. "No way is he getting rid of you, too."

Thus the wall got very acquainted with the couch, pulled up so close it touched. The graffiti-artist hunkered between them many times, wet-eyed and stroking the marks. It spoke to the wall, sharing unexpected things.

The wall's anger faded. It became almost sympathetic. The graffiti-artist was lonely. It missed the smallest human. It missed the lumpy one too, but not as much. The wall learned of 'school', especially 'detention' and 'assholes', whoever they were. Bad humans.

The graffiti artist wasn't really bad. Misguided. Foolish. Immature. The wall related. It hadn't always understood its own importance. Eventually it looked forward to their chats. The human seemed to be talking to the writing-marks, but of course it was talking to the wall. Even the stupidest biped wouldn't talk to chicken-scratchings.

The wall had been struck over the years: with cushions, footballs, eggs, shoes. The graffiti-artist was the first human – bodily, at speed. The wall tried to lessen the impact, but though it was a magnificent wall, it couldn't make itself soft. Luckily the graffiti-artist fell instantly asleep and couldn't hear the filth the biggest human spouted. Later, the wall encouraged the bathroom faucets to spray water over the offensive biped's pants and the kitchen appliances to strike so it couldn't feed itself.

Then the graffiti-artist disappeared. The wall waited. The human didn't come back. It still propped the ceiling, but suddenly that didn't seem so significant. It missed the graffiti-artist. It became sullen and withdrawn, trying to decipher the writing-marks. It had all the time it needed. Patience was a wall's specialty. The only problem was perspective: days and years were interchangeable to a wall.

It woke when the couch yelped and moved. Light filtered through dusty curtains. Voices. Movement. The biggest human hadn't moved in a while. It had started to smell too, but seemed to be gone now.

"I knew they were here!"

The graffiti-artist! Yet the voice was altered: deeper and less browbeaten. The body was bigger, too; grown in ways humans could and walls couldn't.

"You remembered after all this time?"

"Sure. Hey, let's measure ourselves. Once more before they put up the 'for sale' sign."

"Oh… okay. But use pencil so we can rub it off!"

"Nah. This is our wall. We claim it in the name of… uh, us!"

"Big Brother!"

"What?"

The wall sang silently and welcomed the fresh scratch-marks.

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><p><em><strong>Fin. <strong>_

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><p>.<p> 


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